


Married to His Work

by Lauralot



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Crack, Dammit Westfahl, Frottage, HYDRA Trash Party, Masturbation, Murphy is forever scarred, Other, Public Masturbation, Sex with Abstract Concepts, Sex with Inanimate Objects, at least clean up after yourself Brock, but with a wall, i have no explanation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 06:24:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10713990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: Brock Rumlow considers himself married to his job.Literally, as one coworker is unfortunate enough to find out.





	Married to His Work

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into English available: [Женат на работе](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13623501) by [Tressa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tressa/pseuds/Tressa), [WTF_Marvel_Trash_Party_2018](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTF_Marvel_Trash_Party_2018/pseuds/WTF_Marvel_Trash_Party_2018)



> Written for [this prompt](https://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/2271.html?thread=5283295#cmt5283295) on the HYDRA trash meme: _Rumlow considers himself married to Hydra. He decides to consummate his marriage by fucking a Hydra logo. I don't care if it's painted on the wall or on the Soldier's back, or wherever, I just want Rumlow to rub himself all over it until he comes._
> 
> _Bonus points:_   
>  _\+ the words "Hail Hydra" turn Rumlow on_   
>  _\+ Rollins paints the Hydra logo somewhere on his body so Rumlow would fuck him, too_
> 
> No, I don't know why I did this.

“Murphy, how’s the encryption coming?”

Silence. Usually, Murphy would talk your ear off without being asked—while being told to shut up, even—so the lack of response was enough to make Mercer raise her head. “Murphy?”

He’d walked back into the conference room a few minutes ago after going to refill his coffee. The cup in his hands was trembling, and he made no move to lift it to his mouth. He looked pale, almost ashen.

“Murphy!” Mercer repeated. She grabbed an ink pen from the table and tossed at him, nailing him right in the center of his face. He barely blinked. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“He probably saw someone eating chicken,” Rollins said, rolling his eyes. “Murphy. Just pretend it was tofurkey and get back to work.”

Slowly, Murphy shook his head. His eyes were wide, his lips going white from how tightly they were pursed. “Commander Rumlow…”

“What about him?” Mercer prompted when Murphy lapsed back into himself. He couldn’t have emptied a whole can of AXE into the break room again; Murphy didn’t reek of the stuff.

“He shoved bacon down your throat?” Westfahl guessed. “Cool.”

Murphy shuddered violently. “No! He—his pants were off and—”

“So he forgot to lock the bathroom stall again,” Rollins said. “It happens. Calm the hell down and get drunk once you go home.”

“No!” Murphy was shaking hard now, but no coffee sloshed out of his mug. Had he even refilled it? “I went for coffee and—and he—”

*

Murphy nudged open the door to the break room with his shoulder, hoping there would still be a little pumpkin spice dairy-free creamer in the communal fridge. He’d labeled it as his and even sent out a mass email requesting that people at least ask before they take it, but he should have known the allure of pumpkin spice was too powerful. He made a mental note to look into getting a mini-fridge for his cubicle—

“ _Hail HYDRA_ …uhh… _fuck_ yes—”

Murphy turned toward the voice.

He’d never thought to pray to be blind before, but he’d never come into the break room to see his commanding officer fucking the wall either.

That’s what he saw now. The room was dark—Rumlow must have shut off the lights—but that was the commander, pants around his knees and hips rubbing against cinderblock.

No, not cinderblock. That was the expanse of wall where all the safety posters about how to do the Heimlich maneuver were taped up. But there was a new poster now, bigger, keeping Rumlow from chafing himself against the blocks.

Over Rumlow’s shoulder, Murphy could see a red tentacle.

“Nnnh…” Rumlow was gasping. “Order through—ah—order—”

And, praying to be deaf too, Murphy backed away, making sure the door didn’t slam after him.

*

“Just right there!” Murphy said. He’d put the coffee cup down on the table now, hands twisting through his hair. “Where anyone could see! Any non-HYDRA people! Doesn’t he know that lock is broken?”

“I’d have figured he’d be fucking his body spray, if anything.” Mercer couldn’t stop the giggles bubbling up. Incredible. She had to get a picture on her phone before Rumlow blew his load. Or maybe while he did. His o-face was probably hilarious.

“He considers himself married to HYDRA,” Rollins said. “I was hoping he didn’t mean that so literally.”

“You don’t sound surprised,” Mercer noted, digging her phone out of her bag.

“We share an apartment. You can only see suspicious stains on so many logos before you start to notice the pattern.”

“He doesn’t clean up after?” Westfahl asked. “Gross!”

“Dammit, Westfahl, keep your voice down.” Mercer pushed her chair back, standing up. “I’ve got to get a picture. The Intranet’s gonna love me for this.”

“Wait,” Rollins said. “Anyone got a Sharpie? I want to try drawing the old skull and tentacles on my skin.”

“Thought you weren’t into sex.” Mercer was already halfway to the door.

“I’m into blackmail,” Rollins answered, and Mercer bit down a laugh.

“You can do that at home. I’ve only got one shot at this.”


End file.
